


Parsus

by Lenore



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Don't Ask Don't Tell, F/M, M/M, Substitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-01
Updated: 2011-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-23 04:13:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes there just is no substitute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Parsus

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to my beta readers [](http://corinna-5.livejournal.com/profile)[**corinna_5**](http://corinna-5.livejournal.com/), [](http://etben.livejournal.com/profile)[**etben**](http://etben.livejournal.com/) and [](http://justabi.livejournal.com/profile)[**justabi**](http://justabi.livejournal.com/) for all their help and encouragement with this story. It's much better for their insights, and anything that's still wrong is all on me. Big, big, especial thanks to [](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/profile)[**barely_bean**](http://barely-bean.livejournal.com/), not just for going above and beyond as a beta reader, but for all the handholding, cheerleading and inspiration along the way.

There are regulations, and then there's reality. Never has this been truer than in the Pegasus galaxy, but it's something John has understood since the first day of Officer Training School. In theory, the chain of command is sacrosanct. In practice, sometimes you have to color outside the lines to survive. In a perfect world, "don't ask, don't tell" would solve something. In the world they actually live in, the only safe bet is simply don't.

The truth of this became painfully clear in Afghanistan. John remembers every detail in high relief. The day it started, he'd just come in from a routine patrol over Kabul. He went through post-flight debriefing and headed over to the officer's mess. It was Thursday, and there was freeze-dried ice cream on Thursdays. In the middle of god-forsaken nothing, it passed for a big event.

He knew something was wrong before he even sat down, the weighted silence, the rigid set of the other men's shoulders. Then he noticed Henderson, his face a black-and-blue mess, and Jenkins, looking worse than that. Tempers flared, fights happened, but there were scraped knuckles all around the table, and that made this...something else.

Their CO came into the tent then, a look directed their way, satisfaction in it, as if a problem had been taken care of. John had seen that look before, and he could fill in the details, guess what Henderson and Jenkins had been caught doing, even whose cock had been in whose mouth. The guy doing the sucking got more of a beating than the one getting sucked, some primitive notion of justice.

Message sent, message received. John assumed that would be the end of it.

A week later, he was doing a flyover north of the city when the distress call came over the radio. "Mayday, mayday, this is Bravo One. We've taken enemy fire. Jenkins is hit. Miller's dead. Requesting backup!" It was Henderson's frantic voice, explosions in the background, bursts of gunfire.

"Bravo One, this is Command Control. What is your position?"

Henderson relayed the coordinates.

John radioed in. "This is Bravo Two. We're near Bravo One's position. Request permission to respond."

"Wait for instructions, Bravo Two," his CO responded. "We need to assess the situation."

"But, sir—" John argued.

"You have your orders, Bravo Two."

"Command, we're surrounded, we need help now!"

John radioed again, "Sir, we can be there in two minutes—"

He got the same answer, "Hold your position."

There was another, louder explosion, and then only static.

"There's nothing more we can do," the CO said. "Return to base, Bravo Two."

"Fuck that, _sir_."

John isn't entirely certain he said that out loud. Although he's pretty sure.

By the time he landed near the downed chopper, the enemy had withdrawn, but all three men were dead, along with John's career. To this day, he wonders if he could have saved Henderson, maybe even Jenkins, if he'd responded right away. He'll never know for sure.

He is certain of this: bad shit happens with alarming frequency on Atlantis, and if the Marines ever get it in their heads not to back them up when his team needs them, they'll all be dead, not just him, but Teyla, Ronon...Rodney. And that's so far beyond unacceptable the word hasn't been invented for it yet.

So if he notices McKay more than he should, he's careful not to show it. He's been drawing lines his entire career, this far, no farther. He's never been much for telling, anything, to anyone, and he learned long ago not to ask himself questions he can't answer, most especially "how long can I make it on nothing but don't?"

* * *

The day Teyla starts giving him funny looks, John is damned if he can figure out why. They're in the lab, same-old, same-old. Rodney is explaining his latest breakthrough, a feat only twenty-two hours ago he declared to be, "Utterly impossible! What do you think I am? St. Rodney, patron of hopeless causes?"

After Rodney finishes his usual monologue (he hasn't slept or eaten in days and they should all be glad his sheer brilliance has paid off yet again), John asks, "So...it's ready?"

Rodney stares at him in exasperation. "What have I been saying for the last five minutes?"

"My question exactly."

Rodney looks to the ceiling, as if praying for deliverance from idiots. "Yes, Colonel, to break it down into itty-bitty sound bites for you, this absolute miracle of engineering is...ready."

John nods. "Well. Good then."

"Yes, yes," Rodney says with a weary sigh. "Good." He waves his hand in the air. "Go away. Please."

At some point during the exchange, Teyla's funny look transforms into one of her secret smiles.

When the lab doors close behind them, John asks, ""What?"

She shakes her head, but she's still smiling, and that's never nothing.

The next morning, they meet at the gym for their weekly workout, and Teyla still has that maddening I-know-something expression. John finds it distracting, and he needs distraction when he's sparring with Teyla about as much as he needs a hive ship hovering over Atlantis. He gets knocked on his ass even more than usual, not that he's keeping score or anything.

At last Teyla declares, "Enough."

He doesn't argue the point. They gather their stuff and leave, and Teyla's mouth slips into that smile again.

He stops in his tracks. "Seriously. What?"

She doesn't blink. "I do not understand the question, Colonel."

He sighs. "Sure you don't."

She heads off to her quarters, and even her walk seems to suggest, "I see everything."

It's three days later when Teyla asks him to pilot her to the mainland. Usually, she makes arrangements with Beckett or one of the lower-ranking military personnel. John must look surprised because she adds, "There will be a celebration among my people tonight. I would be honored if you would join us."

"Oh." He shrugs. "Sure."

They agree to leave at 18:00 hours. John helps Teyla load the jumper with supplies for the Athosians, and they take off. The sun is setting through the clouds, a last orchestral splash of pink and violet. It's beautiful, and it always feels good to be out flying, even if it is only a ten-minute trip. When the jumper touches down, John is whistling under his breath.

As they walk to the village, it occurs to him to wonder about the cause for the party. "It's too early for the harvest, right?"

Teyla nods. "We will not see the fruits of our labors for many months yet. This festival is called the Five Days. It is a celebration of friendship. On each of five evenings, we gather with those who are close to us. Tonight, you and I will be guests of Halling."

"So, what exactly happens at this festival?" John asks curiously.

Teyla smiles. "Well, to begin with, we eat a great deal. It is also customary to drink toasts to one's friends, in gratitude for all that has been shared in the year past."

"Kind of like our Thanksgiving?"

Teyla nods. "Indeed, Colonel. Very much like that."

When they reach the settlement, they're greeted by committee: Halling and Jinto, an older woman called Dhara, the twins Mahn and Miel, a woman with a booming laugh named Coran.

"Come," Halling says. "Our feast is ready. Let us enjoy ourselves."

He leads them to his house where the table is covered with food. There's tarrow root stew and a salad that looks like it's made of flowers and roasted game that reminds John a little of venison, or so he tries to convince himself.

"Mmmm," he says around a mouthful of fresh hilla fruit.

Halling looks pleased.

They finish their meal, and Halling pours ale for everyone. "Our people have long lived in the shadow of the Wraith," he says solemnly. "In the face of this great evil, we find our grace in the quiet strength off our ties to one another, in everyday acts of friendship, in the unity of our people. We come together tonight to celebrate this."

"Let us drink to friendship," Caron says.

They raise their glasses. The ale is sweeter than John is expecting, but not bad.

Halling smiles. "Now, who wishes to speak?"

Mahn nods. "I would like to thank Dhara for her patience in teaching me to play the flute. Though I deafen her with wrong notes, still she manages to keep a straight face when she assures me that I am not the worst student she has ever had."

Everyone laughs and sips their ale, and they go around the table, each giving thanks.

When it's Teyla's turn, she says, "I am grateful to Colonel Sheppard and the people of Atlantis for being courageous allies and true friends to all Athosians."

The others nod in agreement.

John raises his glass. "And let me say how much we appreciate our friendship with the Athosians, one of the few groups we've met in the Pegasus galaxy who haven't wanted to kill us on sight."

They laugh heartily and drink to the toast.

Halling turns to him. "Colonel Sheppard, has Teyla told you the story that inspires the festival?"

John darts a look at her. "I can't say that she has."

Halling smiles. "Well then, we must remedy that. You see, very long ago there were two young men, Lionus and Parsus, who were said to be as close as brothers. In his sixteenth year, Lionus fell in love with Akasha, the daughter of the Elder Rouald. Sadly for Lionus, his father had done something, no one could remember what, to offend Rouald, and Rouald forbade his daughter from any association with the son."

"Rouald was an Elder, but not a particularly wise man," Teyla explains.

"Indeed," Dhara agrees. "Around this same time, our people became convinced that a raid by the Wraith was imminent. It had been many seasons since the Wraith had last returned, and the villagers were filled with fear that they would soon come."

Caron continues, "Rouald, who was unwise but not without cleverness, reminded the people that several generations ago the Wraith had struck while a large hunting party was camped a good distance from the village. The Wraith had been content to cull the poor unfortunates there, and everyone else had been spared."

"So Rouald managed to convince the villagers to send out a hunting party," John fills in the blanks, "and he made sure that Lionus' name was at the top of the list."

Dhara nods. "Indeed, Colonel Sheppard. Rouald believed that if he could separate his daughter from her young love she would eventually forget him. Or else the Wraith would come, and Lionus would never return to claim her."

"Parsus volunteered to go along with his friend," Mahn says, "and other young men were chosen, as well. They were told they must remain camped at the hunting grounds many months to secure a supply of food for the winter."

Halling explains, "It was a good half-day's walk back to the village, so one among them was chosen to act as messenger, to bring back the kill and ferry supplies and remembrances from home out to the hunters."

"Not Lionus, I'm guessing," John says.

Halling smiles. "Your guess is correct, Colonel Sheppard."

"It was Parsus who served the role of intermediary," Miel tells him. "As you may imagine, Lionus was desperate for news of Akasha, and he begged Parsus to carry notes for him, to bring back tokens of her affection. Parsus did all this, but Lionus' love burned very brightly, and it was not enough."

"O-kay," John says slowly.

Athosian tales, at least all the ones he's heard, have a tendency to take a turn for the weird at some point, and it appears this one is not going to be any different.

Miel continues, "So Lionus then asked Parsus to embrace Akasha the last thing he did on his visits and then hurry back to camp, so that Lionus might catch some faint hint of her."

"But even that wasn't enough," Coran says.

Teyla takes up the story, "So Lionus begged Parsus to lie with Akasha the next time he went to the village. Be me, he said, for in this world we can never know how long we may have or how many chances for happiness there will be."

"Parsus was hesitant to do as his friend asked," Halling says.

John says dryly, "Now there's a surprise."

Teyla's expression grows serious. "But Parsus was also wise. He understood the true reason they'd been sent on the hunting trip. So on his next visit, he told Akasha of Lionus' wish, and together they fulfilled it. When he returned to camp, he went to sleep in the tent next to Lionus as he always did, so that his friend might breathe in his beloved that night."

John shakes his head. "I feel an unhappy ending coming on."

Teyla smiles. "To the contrary, Colonel. The Wraith did not come that season, and by the time the hunters returned for winter, the villagers had grown deservedly ashamed of their selfishness. When they heard the story of how Lionus and Akasha had abided in their love with the help of their friend Parsus, all insisted that the couple should be allowed to wed at once. Rouald, in much disfavor, was in no position to refuse. There were five days of feasting in honor of the wedding, and on each night the people recounted all the many things they had to be grateful for. And so Athosians still celebrate the Five Days, giving thanks for what is truly important, recalling the source of our strength, reminding ourselves that the bonds of love, the claims of friendship must never be lost to fear."

Teyla smiles at John, as if waiting for a reaction.

"Well...thank you." He glances around the table at all the Athosians. "That was quite a story."

Teyla inclines her head. "I hoped you would find it of interest."

Halling breaks out a second round of ale, and there are many more toasts before Teyla reluctantly tells her people it's time to go.

Only on the walk back to the jumper does John connect the strange looks Teyla has been giving him with the story he just heard. His first thought is to regret ever explaining what "don't ask, don't tell" means, followed by a moment of freefall when he considers the possibility that he might be this obvious to everyone. Then he remembers: _Teyla_. And the fear fades.

They settle into the ship, and John runs through the pre-flight check. "So, um—"

"Back to Atlantis?" Apparently, Teyla is satisfied to let the story speak for itself.

This suits John just fine. It's easier to ignore that way.

"Atlantis it is."

* * *

Another day, another off-world mission. This time it's P3X-892, a ruin of a planet, its civilization destroyed by the Wraith long ago. Rodney's scans reveal faint power traces, deep below ground, maybe something useful the Wraith missed, enough to justify further investigation.

They pinpoint the source of the emissions at last, a series of mines on the outskirts of what's left of the city. A preliminary search turns up what appears to be Ancient equipment below ground.

Rodney peers into the yawning dark of the mineshaft. "You can't honestly expect me to go down there."

John puts his hands on his hips. " _I_ did."

"But you're— _you_."

"We ran scans to check the structural integrity. It's perfectly safe. Besides," John reminds him, "you were the one all excited about the energy readings."

Rodney pulls himself up to his full height. "Yes. Well. That was before."

John gives him a look that would wither another man.

It only sends Rodney into a defensive tap dance, "Oh, come on, Colonel! There could be...things down there."

"Yes. Ancient technology things. We had this conversation already, remember?"

" _Bad_ things. Bats. Or bugs. Things so hideous they test the limits of our ability to adequately describe their hideousness."

"And let's not forget the Ancient technology."

Rodney takes a big breath, gearing up for round two of reasons why he can't possibly go down into the mine, when the lure of something bright and shiny and ten thousand years old finally gets the better of him. "All right," he says with a sigh. "Give me that harness. It's not like bugs are going to kill me." He casts a glance at John. "Well, probably not, anyway."

John claps him on the shoulder. "We'll send Major Lorne down first to clear out any cobwebs we missed before."

They gear up. Lorne descends, secures the area, and then Rodney follows.

"So, can you tell what it is?" John radios him.

"Oh sure, Colonel, I've had all of nine seconds to get my bearings. Not only have I figured out what the Ancient equipment does, I've also managed to find a ZPM, the cure for cancer and, hey, is that Amelia Earhart?"

"So...I'm taking that's a no?" John says in a slow drawl, just to wind Rodney up.

" _No_. Now if you'd stop distracting me, I have work to do and man-eating insects to avoid."

John lets himself grin since Rodney isn't there to see it. In some weird way he's come to appreciate Rodney's predictable litany of worst-case scenarios. He can't remember a time when anything Rodney worried about actually _happened_. It's as if Rodney's ranting is the galaxy's most grating good luck charm.

"Anything now?" John checks in with him ten minutes later.

"I think—maybe. I just need to—Major, could you at least _try_ to get out of the way?"

Not long afterwards, Lorne radios, "Can you pull me up? It's all clear down here, and the doc says I'm using up too much of his precious oxygen."

Rodney chimes in, "I can hardly be expected to decipher Ancient technology when I'm suffering from hypoxia, now can I?"

"All right," John says after some consideration, "but maintain radio contact."

John signals the Marines, and they haul Lorne out.

"So," Rodney says, "this control panel you found down here. The language is actually a derivative of Ancient."

"Can you tell what it does?"

"Not yet. I just need to—" There's a metallic clatter, Rodney pulling off the cover to take a look at the circuitry, then silence, followed by, "Oh, that's not good."

"Rodney?" John says.

"Really, _really_ not good."

"Get him out of there!" John yells.

Lorne, Teyla, Ronon, the Marines—everyone converges on the winch at once. They grab for the rope, frantically pulling, just as the ground begins to rumble. Loose dirt shifts, and there's the hollow thud of small stones plummeting to the bottom of the shaft. Then the soil convulses violently, a cascade of collapsing earth that doesn't stop for several sickening seconds.

"McKay!" John yells when the dull roar finally subsides.

He rips open the pocket on his vest, pulls out the life signs detector. There's still a glowing dot way down there under all that rock.

"Start digging!" he orders.

"Colonel." Teyla stops him with a hand on his arm. "Could we not further endanger Dr. McKay if we act without fully understanding the situation?"

"She's right," Ronon says, meeting John's eye. "I've seen cave-ins like this. Make one wrong move, and it's all over."

John lets out his breath, turns to Lorne, "Contact Atlantis. Let them know what happened. Tell them we need all the engineers, heavy equipment and manpower they can send us."

Lorne nods, takes off for the gate at a run.

John taps his radio. "McKay, do you read me? Come in." No answer, and John says under his breath, "Hang on, buddy."

The wait for reinforcements from Atlantis is excruciating, and even when they finally arrive, the engineers stand around, staring at the readouts on their equipment, arguing among themselves about what they can reasonably do without crushing Rodney to death. At last, they come up with a plan, and there's finally some action to take. They dig in shifts, and John is the first to pick up a shovel. The engineers watch like hawks, barking instructions.

The sun grows heavy on the horizon, and they keep at it. When it gets dark, they set up portable torches, line the tunnel with glow sticks. John makes a strict rule with himself, no checking the life signs detector more than once every ten minutes. Otherwise, he'll go insane staring at that shimmering dot.

It grows late, and then early, and finally Lorne hesitantly approaches.

John turns on him before he can open his mouth. "Don't even _try_ to tell me there's nothing more we can do."

Lorne looks startled. "No, sir. I was just going to say if you want to get something to eat or a little rest I can supervise the rescue effort for a while."

"Oh," John says, his rage gone so suddenly it's a little dizzying. "Maybe later. I'm due up to dig again in another ten minutes."

It's late morning when they get to Rodney at last. They lower a team with a stretcher and carefully pull him out. If John had dared to imagine the moment, he would have pictured Rodney red-faced, cursing whoever built these mines as slovenly idiots. But Rodney is limp and still. He's breathing, but his face is bloodlessly pale, the parts of it that aren't actually covered in blood.

Beckett is standing by, does what he can to stabilize Rodney's condition before they head for the gate. John carries the IV bag, won't let anyone take it from him, all the way to the infirmary.

When they get to the curtained area, Carson holds up a hand. "Oh, no you don't, Colonel. You won't do Rodney any good getting in the way." He points to a chair.

Teyla and Ronon join him in the waiting area. People come and go, Elizabeth and Zelenka, other members of the science team, Lorne and some of the Marines.

After what feels like hours, Beckett emerges. "He's still unconscious, has a rather nasty concussion, I'm afraid. Some cuts and bruises. No broken bones or internal injuries, which is a miracle, quite frankly.

"So he's going to be okay?" John says cautiously.

Carson's expression is both sympathetic and grave. "The tests I've run don't show anything particularly worrisome, but head injuries can be tricky. We'll know more in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest everyone get some rest. You all look as if you could use it."

John uses the diversion of the mass exodus to move over to the chair by Rodney's bed. Carson narrows his eyes, and John shrugs. "Hey, you said sleep. You didn't say where."

Carson shakes his head and mutters unintelligible Scottish things under his breath, but doesn't force the issue.

It's quiet enough in the infirmary that John can make out the soft intake of Rodney's breath. That's reassuring, and he slides his chair closer, reaches out, lets his hand trail along Rodney's forearm, down to his wrist, the throb of Rodney's pulse slow and steady beneath his fingers. Maybe John is just way too tired, because suddenly the simple drumbeat of Rodney's life seems too beautiful to stand.

He lets his fingers tangle in Rodney's and the forbidden novelty of it sets off his inner narrator, _I'm holding McKay's hand._ The irony is not lost on him, that the only time it's safe to do this is when it may very well be too late.

He leans closer, lowers his voice, "I don't know what happened out there, why the scans were wrong. I wouldn't have sent you down into that mine if I thought—"

He tightens his grip on Rodney's fingers, and it's not long before he falls asleep.

In the morning, John wakes with his back tied in a knot, one of the fancy ones they teach in special ops, and Rodney still looking pale. The nurse on duty takes pity on him and brings coffee, which is good, and then Rodney's eyes flutter open, which is much, much better.

John leans over the bed, his hand gentle on Rodney's shoulder. "Hey."

Rodney's eyes are slow to focus, but eventually he manages a groggy, "Hey."

"How're you feeling?" John asks him.

Rodney scrunches up his forehead. "Like something heavy fell on me?"

"Yeah," John's mouth pulls into a grimace, "there's a reason for that."

Rodney nods. "Alien mine-builders."

John smiles, all relief. "Slovenly idiots."

Carson descends then, making shooing motions. "He should be okay now that he's awake, but I still need to examine him."

John takes a step back, and even that little distance is enough to snap the tether of emergency that's been his excuse for sticking close.

"I'll see you later," he tells Rodney, without any of the urgency he feels.

Back to business as usual.

There's a list of things to do that has piled up in the last forty-eight hours, and work is the great compartmentalizing force of the universe. He heads to the jumper bay to inspect repairs and gets delayed by a glitch, the kind that involves sparks and thick curls of smoke. There are duty rosters to draw up and security reports to review and a dispute over the last carob chip muffin in the mess hall to mediate. It's not until the next morning that he sees Rodney again, and by this time, he's sitting up in bed, his color much better, arguing with Carson, always a good sign. A complaining Rodney, in John's experience, is a Rodney who's just fine.

"Colonel," Rodney calls out, in obvious need of an ally, "Tell Dr. Overcautious here that it's absolutely outrageous for me to be restricted from duty for an entire _week_. I feel fine! I could go back to the lab right now."

Carson crosses his arms over his chest. "Not an hour ago you were making the paint peel complaining about your headache."

"Well," Rodney says stiffly, "I'm better now."

"Interesting how that happens whenever I mention restricting you from duty, Rodney. You always talk about leaving that brain of yours to science. If you don't follow your doctor's orders, that may well happen sooner than you'd like."

Rodney looks beseechingly to John. "Do you have any idea what kind of damage those people can do to my lab if I'm not there for _seven_ entire days?"

"Those people? You mean your colleagues?"

Rodney flinches at the word. "You have to talk to Elizabeth for me."

John shakes his head. "I don't, actually. And it wouldn't do any good anyway. You know Elizabeth and her crazy priorities, caring about the well-being of her people and stuff." He changes the subject before Rodney can resume his dead-horse beating, "So how much do you remember?"

"Most of it. Although...not the being buried alive part." Rodney makes a face. "Happily."

"And the energy readings?"

Rodney chuffs a laugh. "Ah, yes. The irony of it all."

John raises an eyebrow.

"The inhabitants of P3X-892 were a quid pro quo bunch, it seems. That 'mine' of theirs..."

"Was rigged to collapse the minute anyone started messing with the equipment," John realizes way too late.

Rodney nods. "The energy pulse was bait. I guess they thought if they were going down at least they could take a few Wraith with them."

"Not a bad impulse." Rodney glares, and John clears his throat. "Except for the part where they missed and got you instead."

Rodney's offended expression quickly fades into panic. "What am I supposed to do if I can't work?"

John has many ideas, but all he says is, "Learn to knit?"

* * *

They go ahead with their next scheduled off-world mission even with Rodney laid up, a fact that does not sit very well with Rodney himself. When John returns from MX5-831, a sun-drenched agrarian planet where Teyla has trading contacts, he makes a point to bring back a peace offering.

Rodney sniffs suspiciously when John enters his quarters. "I smell grass."

"Kind of rural there on MX5-831."

Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. "Have I ever mentioned that I'm allergic to grass?"

"It might have come up once or twice. Here." John presses a cloth-wrapped bundle into his hand. "They're not exactly cookies, but they're the closest thing we've found so far."

The petulance fades from Rodney's expression. "Oh. You mean, you—" For a second he looks almost sheepish. "That was good of you." He takes a bite. "Not bad."

"Glad to hear it." John's mouth quirks into a smile, and Rodney goes on eating his not-quite-cookies, and suddenly there doesn't seem to be anything else to say. "So...I guess I should—"

"Don't go!" Rodney begs, particles of baked goods flying. "I'm dying of boredom. Please. Tell me something. Anything. God, I'll listen to football stories. I'm desperate."

John rolls his eyes, but sits down on the end of the bed anyway. "It's been all of two days since Beckett released you. And rest is good for you."

"Rest is killing me!" Rodney declares dramatically. "I shudder to think what a useless shell of my former self I'll be when this week is finally over. The least you can do is tell me about the mission. What was the planet like?"

John considers. "Well. It was green. Very, very green."

Rodney rolls his eyes. "Your powers of description render me speechless, Colonel. Truly. So, did Radek enjoy his jaunt to this grassy wonderland?" His shoulders stiffen as he asks, just a little, but John doesn't miss it.

"Dr. Zelenka wasn't part of the mission."

Rodney's eyes fly open wide. "You took Kavanaugh! One measly mineshaft collapses on me, and I'm replaced by Kavanaugh?"

"Oh, relax, Rodney," John tells him. "It was a trade mission. We figured we could handle it without a Ph.D. among us." He puts just enough sarcasm into the next bit of truth to make it okay to say, "And nobody could take your place, you know that."

Rodney crosses his arms over his chest. "Well, of course, no one can take my place. Do you have any idea how vital I am to this expedition? I save this city a good half dozen times a day, and that's usually before breakfast."

He takes a deep breath, as if preparing to go on at length.

"Hey, you know what you need?" John quickly interrupts. "A good game of cards."

"You think?" Rodney seems not so much unconvinced as insulted.

John nods. "Best diversion ever invented."

Besides sex of course, John silently caveats, and that's probably more discovery than invention anyway.

"This is what they teach you in the military?"

"Yep. Flying. Guns. Time-wasting. Not necessarily in that order."

Rodney sniffs indignantly. "I don't own cards."

John grins, reaches into his pocket and solves that problem. "Now shut up, and let's play."

Rodney bitches through the first few hands of five-card draw, until John suggests they make it more interesting. The way Rodney's eyes light up at the prospect of cleaning John out of his coffee stash reminds John just a little too much of the Gou'ald.

* * *

John makes it a habit after that, visiting Rodney when he's free in the evenings. "To keep him from going nuts," he's prepared to tell anyone who gets too curious, not that this proves necessary. Everyone appears to assume it's the same spirit of self-sacrifice that sends John piloting jumpers with nuclear explosives into hive ships. The science team, in particular, seeks him out to express their gratitude.

At lunch, Dr. Shannon slides her pudding over to him. "I like Rodney. I honestly do. But if he radioed me up one more time to ask if I've blown up his lab, I was seriously going to give him another concussion."

Zelenka stops John in the hall. "You are brave man, Colonel. Rodney deprived of his work is—" He shakes his head, as if there are simply no words, and walks off muttering, "Brave, brave man."

In truth, Rodney is actually pretty good company when he's not all keyed up saving Atlantis from certain doom. John brings a crossword puzzle donated by Lt. Cadman, and in the spirit of being a good host, Rodney lets him fill in two whole answers. They spend another evening doing math proofs, and John gets an actual "I may have underestimated you a little" for his efforts.

By Wednesday, John is thinking he's made a tactical error not spending more time with Rodney in their off hours. Maybe he would have figured out sooner that they're actually friends, that this, them, is more than simple respect and mutual lifesaving and a one-sided desire to fuck. Afghanistan has made him careful about covering his bases. There's a ledger sheet in his head where he balances dinners with Rodney against times he's sparred with Teyla, watched football with Ronon. So if anyone ever points a finger he'll be able to say, "teambuilding, ever heard of the concept?" Not that there's anyone likely to finger-point on Atlantis, since the only person in any real position to do it is Elizabeth, and that's hardly her style.

Still, John likes to feel he has answers for even purely imaginary accusations.

By Thursday, they're sprawling across Rodney's bed like it's nothing, their heads together over a pad of paper, playing hangman.

"Liftoff," Rodney guesses with just the "i" filled in.

John glares at him. "You're cheating!"

"No, you're just obvious. Come up with something better."

John mulls it over and draws new blanks, and Rodney hangs himself before he can guess "wraithbait."

"That's not a word!" Rodney points an accusatory finger, but he's trying not to laugh.

John gives him a closer look, checking for dilated pupils.

"Oh, please," Rodney says with a roll of his eyes. "I can have a sense of humor. It doesn't mean I'm about to go into a coma."

John shrugs. "I've just never seen you so relaxed before."

Rodney's mouth pulls into a rueful line. "And to think, all it took was a few metric tons of rubble falling on my head."

And the thing is: it's all perfectly friendly, effortlessly platonic, even though Rodney is mere inches away and John can feel his breath against his cheek. He begins to wonder if he hasn't made this attraction thing more than it is by being so damned freaked out by it. Not that he can blame himself for that exactly. Everything in Antarctica made him numb, the endless white, the tedium of back-and-forths between McMurdo and the research facility, his own banal pride, _I kind of like it here_. So it's little wonder that their first encounter at the SGA was such a gut-punch, the power of the chair throbbing through him like the universe's most subtle sex toy, and Rodney's eyes on him, hot blue, when everything else was so cold. It had been a relief when Rodney had finally, grudgingly allowed him out of the chair. He'd found the nearest private place and jerked off to a mental chorus of, "don't!"

It occurs to John now that desire so overamped—ratcheted up a few extra notches, no doubt, by the sudden revelation of aliens and wormholes and lost cities in distant galaxies—couldn't possibly last forever.

By Friday, John is confident that the problem is behind him. He brings along his laptop which gets Rodney really excited for about two seconds when he thinks John is smuggling in some work and then mildly interested when John presents him with _Firefly_ episodes.

"The popcorn didn't tip you off, huh?" John asks, balancing the bowl between them as they lounge on Rodney's bed.

"Oh, shut up and hand it here."

They watch and eat, and John steals the occasional glance at Rodney out of the corner of his eye, testing his newfound theory of just friends. He's never really bothered to dissect what is about McKay that gets to him, because want never makes any sense, and truth be told, John has kind of a thing for difficult people. It may not be fair or even accurate, but he's always had this sneaking suspicion they're just a little more worth getting to know.

It's only now that he realizes he hasn't with Rodney, hasn't gotten to know him, not really, not as much as he would have liked. All their closeness happens out in the field, where they bleed and sweat and survive all over each other, reduced by necessity to their most elemental parts.

"Hey, Mc Kay, what's your favorite color?"

Rodney glances up, suspicion in his eyes. "Why?" Like this might be a trick, or maybe John has suffered some head trauma of his own that no one knows about.

John shrugs. "Why not?"

"Colonel, you do realize that what we perceive as color is simply the angle at which light is refracted and how our brains interpret that information?"

"Yes, Rodney," John says patiently. "I realize that."

Rodney harrumphs, goes back to watching the show.

"Blue is nice," he says at last.

John smiles, because Rodney's favorite color is so hilariously ordinary, because it's a luxury to be able to ask questions that don't directly impact their survival.

During the third episode, Rodney says, "Hey, pause that, okay?"

He crawls over John's legs and clamors off the bed, then lurches unsteadily. John is up in an instant, his arms going around Rodney's waist to keep him from falling.

"Okay there, buddy?"

Rodney nods. "Just got up a little too fast, I think."

He meets John's eyes, and it hits John then, how close they're standing, his hand on Rodney's back moving in circles. Rodney smells like coffee and popcorn and warm, worn clothes, and if John turned his head just a little, they'd be—

He takes a careful step back. "You, uh—" He jerks his thumb toward the bathroom.

"Yeah." Rodney shuffles off.

By the time he comes back, John has his excuse ready, "Gotta go. Military business." He puts on his most nonchalant air. "I'll leave you to the space cowboys."

Rodney looks utterly confused as John flees out the door, and John certainly empathizes with that feeling.

* * *

John steers clear of Rodney for the rest of the week, carefully redrawing the lines, colleagues, teammates, sometime saviors, this far, no farther. On Monday, Rodney starts back to work. When he radios to demand John's presence in the lab, John goes with his usual cheerful swagger.

"How good of you to actually show up, Colonel," Rodney says huffily. "It's nice to see you can spare me some of your valuable time now that I'm no longer dying of boredom."

Dr. Zelenka coughs into his hand.

John shrugs affably. "You seem to have made it through okay."

"No thanks to you!" Rodney insists. "You abandoner!"

"What can I say? I got busy. Atlantis doesn't run itself. I think I may have heard you say that a few thousand times," John reminds him.

"Have I ever mentioned how annoying it is when you quote me back to me?"

John gives him a mild look. "So, this thing you needed my help with?"

Rodney clears his throat. "Yes. Well. Here." He points to yet another mysterious Ancient device. "We think it's possibly a handheld particle accelerator."

"Or the Ancient version of flamethrower," Zelenka adds, making Rodney scowl at him.

"Could you just—" Rodney waves his hand impatiently over the whatever-it-is.

"Really?" John says dubiously.

Rodney crosses his arms over his chest.

"Okay, okay." John reaches for the accelerator-slash-flamethrower with understandable trepidation.

It lights up like a carnival, but doesn't incinerate them all, which is always good.

"So particle accelerator, it seems," Zelenka says.

Rodney nods, and they bend their heads over it, a mix of relief and ruthless curiosity on their faces.

"Does this mean we're—" John asks.

Rodney doesn't glance up from his new toy. "Yeah, yeah, we're good."

That's it, the end of the awkwardness. In this one respect at least, Rodney is easy. Make a piece of Ancient technology come to life for him, and he pretty much forgets whatever they were arguing about. John expects everything to go back to normal—and surprise, it actually does. They go to staff meetings, and grab lunch together, and have round #1,647 of the never-ending debate about which is the superior sport, football or hockey. It's good. All good. That's what John tells himself.

The time rolls around for their monthly expedition to check out new parts of the city. Almost two years in, and they still haven't explored more than half the square footage. John leads the team, with Teyla, Ronon and Matthews. They take the transporter to a far eastern point they've never visited before, and the corridor branches in two directions.

John points to the right, "Matthews, you and Ronon go that way. Teyla, you're with me."

They walk down the long hall, stopping at every door to look inside. What they find are supply closets, lots and lots of supply closets, all empty of supplies. By the tenth one, John's spirit of adventure has started to fizzle.

"So, do anything fun this weekend?" he asks to pass the time.

"My people are building a granary. I assisted with the construction."

"Well, that sounds...productive."

Teyla nods serenely. "It certainly was, Colonel."

John swipes his hand outside the next door. Empty supply closet number eleven. They continue on.

"You seemed to enjoy the time you spent with Dr. McKay while he was recuperating."

It's the conscious lack of insinuation in her voice that makes it sound so insinuating.

"Well, somebody has to keep him out of trouble," John jokes.

Teyla is not so easily put off, "I hoped perhaps given recent events you had found some inspiration in the story you heard during the festival of the Five Days."

"Don't sacrifice your people in a pathetic attempt to save yourself from the Wraith?" John says wryly. "I'm totally on board with that."

Teyla regards him patiently, "I was, of course, speaking of the larger meaning. That the present is all that belongs to anyone, and opportunities for happiness are too precious to ignore."

"You know what?" John says. "Maybe we should just concentrate on the search?"

Teyla nods graciously. "As you wish, Colonel."

They resume their fruitless investigation of empty rooms and head back to meet Ronon and Matthews.

As they're rounding the last corner, Teyla springs one last conversational ambush, "I do not pretend to understand all your customs or your military regulations, Colonel. But I do know what I _see_. You have only friends here on Atlantis, and I cannot imagine anyone who would not be glad for your happiness. I do not believe obstacles stand in your way as they did for Lionus and Akasha."

John's jaw tightens. He wants to say, "You don't know. You couldn't possibly know." But they've already reached the transporter where Matthews and Ronon are waiting.

Matthews steps forward to report, "Nothing but residential quarters, sir."

John nods, distractedly. They head back to the city center, and John goes to brief Elizabeth. He's determined not to think about what Teyla said. _A pointless waste of time,_ he tells himself.

And yet.

There's a rebellious part of him that can't help wondering, _Could it really be that easy?_

* * *

The question refuses to go away, and John gives Teyla dirty looks at every available opportunity. Her answer is always the same, encouraging smile, and that's so incredibly crazy-making John is convinced there should be an intergalactic law against it. Worse yet, for all the time John spends on the Rodney question he never actually manages to figure out an answer.

The evening he goes to talk to Rodney he still hasn't come to any decision. This is what he tells himself. It's more a fact-finding mission. Maybe they'll end up talking about the weather. This reassures him even if he does have trouble visualizing Rodney discussing cloud cover and relative humidity for any length of time.

He knocks, and Rodney is standing there when the door opens, hands curled into fists. "Oh, for God's sake. What's happened now? Did Stevens blow the power couplings again? I told him to keep a closer eye on the readouts."

John shakes his head. "No, no, nothing's wrong. I just came by to see you."

"Huh." Rodney scrutinizes him, and only years of military discipline keep John from squirming. "Well, Colonel, come in."

John steps inside, and he really might talk about the weather. He pretends to believe this.

Rodney's eyes don't leave him. "Do you want to sit down?"

"Sure." He settles onto the edge of the sofa. "So—"

And gets stalled there.

It takes Rodney to break the awkward silence. "I guess this isn't to demand a rematch at hangman, then?"

John smiles, shakes his head. "Rodney—"

He swallows hard. The words still won't come.

"John," Rodney says softly, and John stares. Rodney never does that, never uses his name. Elizabeth's, yes. Zelenka's. But never his.

"You know, that evening we were watching _Firefly_ , I got the idea that maybe you wanted—" Rodney starts to turn red and hastily adds, "Not that I'm necessarily _right_. I mean, you know I'm no good at figuring these things out. And you did practically run from the room afterwards. So that's," he waves his hand nervously, "something of a mixed message. I just thought I should say—it would be okay. With me. If you did. Want that."

Rodney can't sit still, and there's sweat beading on his forehead, and John feels uncomfortably like a coward, leaving Rodney to put himself on the line when that was supposed to be his job.

Rodney misinterprets how slow he is to respond and panics, "Or not! Not is good, too. I value our friendship, Colonel. Very much. Not to mention our working relationship. I hope this won't—"

" _Rodney_ ," John says firmly. He turns toward him, bringing their bodies closer together. "I'd really like—"

Rodney is nodding, and saying something, and John can't stop looking at his mouth.

"Colonel Sheppard." Elizabeth's voice makes John jump back.

He taps his headset. " _Yes_?"

"We have a situation. Can you come to my office?"

Rodney goes a little pale. "Is something about to blow up?"

"No, Rodney, not this time," Elizabeth assures him. "It's something I need Colonel Sheppard to handle."

John lets out his breath. "Be right there." He gets to his feet. "Sorry. I've got to—"

Rodney waves his hand. "Go, go. Just. Come back when you're done?"

There's a hopeful light in Rodney's eyes, and John nods, his throat going tight. Maybe it really is this easy.

John has no idea what he'll find in Elizabeth's office. He can't remember the last time they had a situation where Rodney's help wasn't needed. Whatever he's expecting, it's certainly not a handful of Marines, including Major Lorne, fresh from a fistfight, looking sheepish.

"I came across an altercation on my way to the jumper bay," Elizabeth fills him in, more than a little displeased.

John glares at the men. "I'll take care of it."

The way the Marines shuffle their feet on the way out assures John that he has sounded just as menacing as he intends. The closest thing he has to an office on Atlantis is the munitions supply room, so he herds the group there.

"Does someone want to tell me what the hell this is about?" he snaps the moment the doors close.

No one volunteers an answer, and John gives each man a hard glare in turn, Cosgrove and Bellson, Smith and Lorne and the new guy Adams. That's when he notices. There are scraped knuckles all down the line, but it's Adams' face that's taken the brunt of the damage. John tries to think if there's something in the corporal's file, some speculation on a psych profile, a hint between the lines, but he comes up empty. Not that this means anything particularly. There are many commanders like his CO in Afghanistan who prefer this kind of "problem" to be dealt with brutally off the record. John briefly considers that there might be some other explanation, but the sullen silence, the whole scene, is just too sickeningly familiar. He would dearly like to believe that none of these people, Lorne in particular, is capable of something like this, but before that day in Afghanistan, he would have said the same thing about those men.

John stares the group down. " _Never_ again," His voice has the cold seriousness of a blade.

They all carefully study the floor, and John walks away, that icy, numb feeling in his gut again, that he realizes belatedly never had anything to do with the tedium of Antarctica. For all his habitual vigilance, a part of him has believed that it _would_ be different here. Believed that in a galaxy of life-sucking monsters it couldn't possibly matter who anyone slept with.

The apparent evidence to the contrary fills him with the urge to do something spectacularly stupid and violent. At last, he manages to make himself turn in the direction of the gym. Beating the shit out of a punching bag is the only satisfaction he's likely to get anytime soon.

* * *

John doesn't see Rodney again until the next afternoon. He figures it's worth an entire morning inventorying the supplies aboard the jumpers to avoid a conversation he really doesn't want to have. When he does pass Rodney in the hall, he looks straight ahead and intends to keep on walking.

Rodney has other ideas and grabs him by the arm. "Hey."

He makes his expression blank. "McKay."

" _Colonel_." It's snappish, impatient.

"What can I do for you?" he asks coolly.

Rodney frowns, bewildered hurt starting to show in his eyes. If somebody else made Rodney look like that, John would probably want to take a swing at them.

"I—you didn't come back last night. I thought we could finish our conversation now, if you're free."

John focuses on a point just past Rodney's shoulder. "No."

"Oh. Okay. Well, maybe later—"

John shakes his head. "No. That's my answer."

For a second Rodney just stares, then his mouth presses into a hard line. "That's it? That's all I get?"

"You left it up to me, remember?"

"Yes, but—" Rodney's voice rises, and John gives him a warning look. Rodney hisses through his teeth, "That's when I thought you weren't going to be stupid about it." He takes a deep breath and tries a more conciliatory approach, "Come on. Let's just go someplace more private and talk."

John looks him square in the eye. "There's nothing to talk about. So just drop it, McKay."

He turns sharply on his heel and walks away. He can feel eyes boring into his back all the way down the hall.

* * *

Their first mission back after this is a little weird, not surprisingly. John fully expects some tension. He just doesn't guess that it will come out as stilted politeness, all "Dr. McKay, would you mind" and "Colonel Sheppard, I'll get right on that." John tries not to miss their easy sarcasm, although he's not very successful at it.

Still, they go, they explore, they come back in one piece. It's fine, fine, all fine. They're both professionals. They understand what's at stake.

John honestly believes he's put it behind him until he starts slipping up on little things. He forgets an appointment to give Sgt. Masters flying lessons. Then his command code for the armory completely slips his mind, and he spends an embarrassing twenty minutes trying random combinations of letters and digits until it finally comes back to him. In a staff meeting he zones out and somehow ends up volunteering to help plan Atlantis' first annual harvest festival, much to Elizabeth's obvious amusement.

Needless to say, Teyla beats the shit out of him in their weekly sparring match.

The fourth time she has to pull him up from the floor she declares, "It is clear your thoughts are elsewhere today, Colonel. We should continue another time."

He shakes his head. "No, no, let's go again. I'm just a little preoccupied."

She raises an eyebrow. "A little?"

"Drop it, Teyla." It comes out harshly, and he takes a breath. "Sorry. I didn't mean—"

Teyla nods. "I understand." She hesitates. "Colonel—John, I do not wish to intrude, but I can not help but wonder if you have spoken with Dr. McKay—"

His hands clench into fists. "Not open for discussion."

She studies him a long moment. "Very well. But will you permit me one observation?"

He sighs heavily, but it's useless to say no. She'll just keep watching him in that speculative way of hers until he finally caves in. "Go ahead."

"You are more than preoccupied. I have heard others observing as much."

"Hey! Anybody can have an off day."

"It is not just one day, Colonel," she corrects him, "and such distraction can be dangerous for yourself and others, can it not?"

"I'm handling it," he says flatly, not sure if he's angry or just surprised she doesn't have more confidence in him.

She tilts her head. "I do not mean to criticize. I only wish to say that if you need a friend I am here for you."

He sighs. "I know, Teyla, and I appreciate it. Really. But there's nothing you can do."

She gets a considering look. "I am not so certain about that. I still do not believe you have anything to fear from following your heart, but it is clear that you are convinced otherwise. So if you will cast yourself in the role of Lionus, then perhaps I can be your Parsus."

He stops and stares at her. "You don't mean—"

"I do," she says calmly.

"Oh, no. _No_. Absolutely not." He shakes his head, more emphatically than is probably polite.

"Not that the idea of Teyla isn't—and he's certainly no stranger to consolation sex. There were always bars near base, smoky places where pilot groupies could be had with an easy smile, willing female bodies John could lose himself in, for a little while at least. In no universe is Teyla meant to be that kind of substitute."

She draws herself upright, a spark in her eyes that John recognizes well. "I realize your people have some unfortunate notions about women and our capacity to make our own choices, but—"

"No, no," he takes her hand, "it's not that. We just—we don't use our friends that way."

Her expression softens. "I would not view it in that light. My people consider it an honor to be called upon by a friend in time of need."

"And I consider it an honor that you would offer to help," he tells her very earnestly, "but I can't ask you to do that. I can handle this, Teyla. I really can."

She bows her head. "As you wish, Colonel." But there is no conviction in her voice.

* * *

Of all the people John has ever tried to avoid, Rodney is by far the easiest. Probably because he's such a creature of habit, or else he's just as intent on steering clear of John. Either way, they rarely see each other outside of work, and this gives John some much-needed breathing room. His distraction rights itself, and the odd looks people have been giving him disappear. Business as usual, and only John knows how terrifyingly empty it is.

He thinks back to other situations, other postings, times when the longing for men backed up on him. It was so much simpler then. He could always tell himself: _What does it matter? You like women, too. Just go for what's behind door number one._ And that did the trick. But this isn't about wanting cock. This is wanting _Rodney_ , and there's no convenient platitude to make not having him feel like less of a deprivation.

John tries not to stew about it, not all that successfully. When someone knocks at his door unexpectedly a week later, his heart leaps in ridiculous anticipation as he says, "Come in."

The door slides open, and it's not Rodney, but Teyla standing there, dressed in a plain white robe, her expression solemn.

"What's wrong—"

She steps inside, locks the door. "You could not ask me to help you, Colonel. _John_. I understand that. So I have taken matters into my own hands."

"Teyla—"

She comes closer, and John catches her scent, clean and earthy as always, but tonight there's something else, as well. Sweat and metal and old coffee, and John realizes with a sharp pang how much he's missed Rodney's smell.

It's all impulse what happens next, pulling Teyla against him, pressing his face against her neck, breathing in long, desperate gasps. When he does finally remember himself, he drops his hands, stutters back a step. "Sorry."

Teyla shakes her head. Her voice is gentle, "That is why I am here, John. Take what you need."

Whatever he's going to say—something noble, something prudent—it gets lost when she unties her robe and lets it fall to the floor. Because this isn't some empty-headed stranger in a bar. It's _Teyla_ , who understands and is still here, whose milky coffee skin makes him want to touch so badly. His gaze lingers on her breasts, full and dark at the nipples, and he pictures Rodney's hands there, Rodney's body pressed against hers. John licks his lips and imagines kissing Teyla's delicate collarbone where Rodney's mouth has no doubt already been.

"John," she says softly, opening her arms.

He steps into them, puts his hands on her hips. Her skin is hot under his palms, as if Rodney's heat has seeped into her and lingered. He tilts her chin and kisses her, exploring her mouth, her taste and Rodney's. For once consolation doesn't feel so desolate.

"Come." She takes his hand, leads him to bed.

They lie down, and her hands move over him efficiently, stripping away his clothes. They tangle together on the sheets, the two of them, and a shimmer of Rodney. Whatever conscience John has about doing this is drowned out by need. He kisses Teyla hungrily, imagining Rodney's lips on hers, his lips on Rodney's. His body moves against Teyla's, his cock hard, wet against her thigh.

She strokes his hair and trembles beneath his hands and murmurs, "Yes, John. Anything."

He flutters kisses down over her belly. She obligingly opens her legs, and he kneels between her thighs, taking a moment just to look. She's swollen and wet, from arousal, from Rodney fucking her.

"God," John's voice breaks.

She pulls at his shoulders, and he bends his head. She's salt-sweet, and Rodney is bitter, and John licks eagerly, wanting as much of them both as he can get. Teyla's fingers sink into his hair, holding him against her. Every breathy little moan makes his cock ache.

She comes against his tongue, again, again, and then he moves up her body, reaching for the nightstand drawer.

"Can I—"

" _Yes_." Her face is flushed, her eyes bright.

She touches his cock, just one finger at first, tracing the vein, then with her whole hand, gripping him. It's so good he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sensation.

He rolls on the condom and kisses her as he pushes inside. Teyla's sweet body, and the smell of Rodney between them, and John closes his eyes, starts to move.

Teyla winds her legs around his waist, taking him deeper. She runs her nails up his back. "Take everything you need, John."

He thrusts harder, resting his forehead against her shoulder.

"Teyla," he pants. " _Rodney_."

He feels her climax, the hot clench of her body around his cock, and he braces his hands against the pillows, pushing into her.

"God."

She opens her eyes, her lips moist, softly parted. "Give in to your pleasure."

Her hand glides down his back. Her fingers trail along his cleft, and she pushes one finger in, hard and fast. The delicious shock of it makes his body jerk violently, makes him come, biting his lip.

Afterwards, he lies beside her, and they hold hands.

"You won't tell him, will you?" he asks, staring up at the ceiling.

"Not if you do not wish it."

He nods. "Thanks."

They're quiet again after that. When Teyla leaves his bed at last, the sheets rustle softly. She pulls her robe back on, and John gets up, goes to her. After a moment's awkwardness, they touch foreheads.

"Thank you," he whispers.

She kisses his cheek. "You are welcome."

* * *

If anyone had ever asked John whether it was possible to play a game of sexual telephone that didn't end in disaster, he's sure he would have said no. And yet, there are times after that night when he almost wonders if it happened at all. Teyla regards him with the same bemused warmth as always. If she and Rodney share a smile every now and then, that's the only thing that's different. John puts the experience on a mental shelf, something to keep but not look at very often. He certainly never expects to repeat it.

But then, they barely evade a Genii ambush on a bucolic little Constable painting of a world where they're trying to trade for chaana beans. They run for the stargate, and even back in the control room, John's heart is still pounding, the adrenaline surging. In that moment, he's so profoundly aware of both Teyla and Rodney it's like he's drowning in them. He doesn't ask, but Teyla shows up at his door later that evening, the scent of Rodney on her skin. After that, there's no pretense that they won't continue. Teyla just seems to know what he needs, and John lets himself take it.

Today's off-world misadventure is on PCX-619, where they manage to stumble onto an abandoned minefield, and John just barely grabs Rodney's arm in time to keep him from blowing himself up. They come home, debrief, and John can tell by the look in Teyla's eyes that this is going to be one of those nights. He goes to the mess hall to wait it out. Rodney is no slap-dash lover. Even once removed, John appreciates that. He picks up an apple and a bottle of water and joins Ronon, who is in the middle of what has to be his fifth meal of the day.

"Looks good," John says conversationally.

"Mm-hmm," Ronon mumbles around a mouthful of mashed potato-like vegetable.

John bites into his apple and tries not to fidget. A few tables over, Adams is eating alone. He keeps his head down, eyes focused on his tray as if nothing else exists. Since John laid down the law, there have been no more incidents, but Adams hasn't exactly made any friends.

Ronon glances up, follows John's line of vision. "I heard about that."

"Yeah?" This is hardly surprising. Ronon hears about everything.

"Just so you know. I would have taken care of it if the Marines hadn't."

John stares at him. He's never known Ronon to have issues about anything having to do with sex. "Why?"

Ronon gives him the usual I-can't-believe-I-have-to-explain-this look. "Because you're the leader. On Sateda a man who spoke against his commander was a dead man. If you ask me, Adams got off easy for what he said about you and McKay."

John frowns. "He—"

Ronon casts a derisive glance in Adams' direction. "Found out the hard way your personal life is none of his business."

"Uh, yeah." John lurches to his feet. "I've got to—"

Ronon nods and goes back to his pot roast. John doubletimes it to Teyla's, but there's no answer. On the way back to his room, he tries to make sense of it. So…people already think he and McKay are involved, and the Marines were actually coming to _their_ defense. That's just—John doesn't even have a word for it, although some combination of "humbling" and "amazing" seems to come closest. He isn't sure if it changes things, because there will always be people like Adams. But still. There will always be people like Ronon and Lorne, too. So maybe. Maybe it changes something. And if there's a maybe in the picture, he can't keep on doing what he's been doing with Teyla.

By the time she appears at his door, he's gotten himself a little worked up about it. "Teyla, you know how much I appreciate what you're doing for me, right? But I think—maybe—" He paces. He can't stand still.

Her face lights up. "Does this mean you are reconsidering the viability of a relationship with Dr. McKay?"

He nods. "Yes. Okay, I'm not _sure_. But _maybe_."

She takes his hand. "I am very glad for you, John. Will you go and speak with him now? I believe you should."

She doesn't say "before you lose your nerve," but John has learned a thing or two about Teyla and her silent parentheticals.

He runs a hand through his hair. "Not that I know what to say."

She smiles. "I feel certain you will figure it out."

"Teyla, I want you to know—"

She cuts him off with the soft pressure of her mouth. "It has been my honor."

He opens the door for her, and standing on the other side is Rodney. His expression is mobile, first pleased, then surprised, then not so pleased.

Teyla glances from him to John very solemnly. "I will leave the two of you to talk."

Rodney watches her retreat down the wall, his expression darkening. John yanks him by the arm into his room. Maybe it really is different on Atlantis, but that doesn't mean they can afford a public explosion.

"So I guess there are two options here," Rodney says, jaw clenched. "Either Teyla is a slut, which seems unlikely since... _Teyla_. Or else there was actually a _reason_ she told me that long-winded story about youthful hunters and thwarted desire and well-meaning stand-ins."

"Look, McKay, it's not—"

John's not sure what he's trying to say, and he doesn't get much of a chance to figure it out. Rodney hauls off and punches him, the surprise of it landing John on his ass.

He rubs at his jaw and slowly gets to his feet, mustering all the sarcasm he's capable of, "So...I guess the whole gay thing was more appealing in theory, huh?"

Rodney stares a good, long moment, then sputters, "You—I'll have you know I came over here to _confess_ to you about sleeping with Teyla, like I was cheating on you or something. Even though you told me oh, so unceremoniously to move on, and I never got so much as a blowjob out of you. But, hey, that's just the kind of idiot I am about you. And then I find—"

John shifts uncomfortably. "I'm sorry about that. Rodney, I swear—"

Rodney points his finger. "And how dare you accuse me of being the homophobe here! Need I remind you that I'm not the one who's been using our _friend_ as a go-between?" He glares indignantly. "I thought you just didn't want me, that you decided I'm too big a pain in the ass to get involved with. It's not like that hasn't happened to me before. And hey," he jabs a finger into his own chest, "not pathetic, not going to grovel. Only apparently you _do_ want me. You're just sublimating it because…of what? Your military's narrow-minded regulations? That's so incredibly pathetic I'd be embarrassed for you if I wasn't so fucking pissed off!"

"It's _not_ about that. You know I don't give a shit about regulations, not when they're stupid!"

But Rodney isn't listening. "What are you so afraid of? That you won't be named to the Joint Chiefs someday? Newsflash. That's a hopeless cause anyway. Or maybe you just can't stand the idea that the women of Atlantis might stop having spontaneous orgasms every time you walk by if you start screwing a guy?"

"Shut the fuck up, Rodney! Do you honestly think I'd," he waves his hand, easier than putting actual words to what he was doing with Teyla, "if that's all this was about?"

"Then what? What could be so bad? Because," the way Rodney looks at him feels like a hot fist is twisting his insides, "you and me, that could be so—"

"That could get us dead," John says with brutal matter-of-factness.

Rodney stares, slowly comprehending. "Surely, you don't mean—"

"It happens. Trust me." Memories from Afghanistan project in his mind like an unwelcome slideshow. "Backup comes a little too late. Somebody calls off a rescue a little too soon."

Rodney is shaking his head. "That wouldn't happen here. Not on Atlantis. You know it wouldn't."

"I want to believe that," John says tiredly.

"So, believe it!"

Rodney grabs him by the front of his T-shirt, not gently, and hauls him into a kiss. Reasons why they shouldn't melt away with firsthand knowledge of Rodney's mouth. Big and wide, and Rodney kisses the same way he solves life-and-death problems, throwing everything he has at it. He splays a hand over John's ass and pulls him close. His body radiates heat just as John has imagined, solid and _hard_ and all for him.

"Rodney," he murmurs.

It has nothing to do with stopping, but Rodney doesn't realize that.

"Shut _up_. You used me, and you used Teyla, and you fucking _owe_ me this, you underhanded, manipulative bastard."

"Sweet talker," John says against his mouth.

Rodney bites his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, still angry. "You want sweet talk? How's this? Get your clothes off and get on the bed."

John doesn't obey the order. He takes Rodney's face in his hands, kissing more slowly, stroking Rodney's hair. Rodney's breath stutters, but he doesn't relent, not at once. John curves an arm around his waist and rubs his back and keeps kissing.

The tension gradually leaves Rodney's body. "Okay, okay, I get it. You worry." He pulls John's T-shirt out of his waistband, up over his head. "And fine. We can be discreet. We can be secret agents of sex if that's what you want." He undoes John's belt with big, grabby hands and pushes John's pants down over his hips. "But we _are_ doing this."

John kicks his pants the rest of the way off. Rodney stares and touches him, lightly, just on his side, but it's enough to make John shake.

"Get on the bed," Rodney says again, more gently.

The world tilts as John lies down. His skin is buzzing, and he feels so naked, on his back, hard, watching Rodney undress for him. Rodney's confidence seems to desert him a little now that he's no longer propelled by outrage. He crooks his arm awkwardly in front of him, suddenly self-conscious without his clothes.

When he starts toward the bed, John tells him, "Wait."

If he really gets to have this, then he wants it all. His gaze moves lazily over Rodney's body, broad chest, thick cock, sturdy legs. He hears the rough intake of Rodney's breath, and then Rodney rubs a hand teasingly over his own belly, apparently developing a new appreciation for being looked at.

John smiles. "Come here."

And the thing is: there really is no substitute for this, no preparation for how good it feels, Rodney half lying on top of him, all sharp angles and hard cock and soft skin, touching John everywhere, making him light up the way Atlantis lights up for him. He remembers sitting in the chair that first time, sensation surging through him, Rodney's eyes so hot and focused. It wasn't finding out about aliens or wormholes or distant galaxies that made it such a gut-punch, he realizes now. It was just this, just them.

Rodney presses his face against John's throat. "Teyla, she's really—but still— _still_ , I wanted you so damned much."

That is just too hot to stand, and John flips them over, moves down the bed. Rodney stares, kind of stunned, the way he might look if let loose in a ZPM discount warehouse. John swirls his tongue around the head of Rodney's cock, licking at the salt there, renewing his acquaintance with Rodney's taste.

Rodney's eyes widen. "Did you—my—from her—"

John smiles around his cock.

"God!" Rodney thrashes his head on the pillow and comes, just like that.

Pleasure hums all through John, and he hasn't even gotten off yet, and he can't remember the last time he felt like that. He's guessing never. He slides back up beside Rodney, slips an arm around him, nuzzles his neck.

It takes a little while, but Rodney finally gets hold of himself enough to ask, "What do you want?" His hands move over John's body, like he can't quite believe it's allowed, like he's going to keep doing it anyway.

"I want you to kiss me."

So Rodney does, deep and slow and dirty, one big hand wrapped around John's cock. Rodney's palms are broad, his fingers long, surprisingly callused. John holds onto Rodney's shoulders and pushes into his grip and doesn't have to worry that he's calling the right name when he comes.

Afterwards, he feels wrung out in the best possible way. Rodney flops against him, head on his shoulder. "You know we're going to have to do something really nice for Teyla."

"She said it's an honor among her people to help a friend in need."

Rodney snorts against his jaw. "I'm sure you think it's always an honor to sleep with you."

John rolls his eyes. "Okay. How about some of your chocolate then?"

Rodney goes still. "She did sleep with both of us. Maybe the honor is enough."

John grins. He laces their fingers together, and Rodney glances up at him. John has to admit he likes the way Rodney looks in his bed, happy and rumpled and filled with colonial aspirations.

"You have no intention of leaving anytime soon, do you?

Rodney shakes his head.

"Because that discretion thing we talked about—?"

Rodney yawns, snuggles closer. "I'll come up with some brilliant plan for sneaking out of your room in the morning. And if that somehow fails and the secret gets out, I'm sure we can depend on Ronon to maim anyone who so much as looks at us the wrong way."

Just the idea of that necessity makes John tighten his hold on Rodney, smoking wreckage and scraped knuckles and a doomed voice splashing up from the pool of things he tries to forget.

Rodney lifts his head to look at him. "You will tell me about it."

Not a request.

"Sometime."

Not a promise.

Rodney studies him a moment, before settling his head back against John's shoulder. "Fair enough."

And John thinks: maybe it finally is.


End file.
